


London. 1944.

by AliceinSpace



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Crowley is shot, Hurt/Comfort, Miracles, and poor Aziraphale has to deal with it, what else for these two idiots?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceinSpace/pseuds/AliceinSpace
Summary: The air ripples and stars blink in and out of existence as the fabric of the universe creates a loophole in the middle of the street.  A figure drops unceremoniously from that loophole and hits the pavement in a tangle of limbs."-is that agunshotwound?”Or the one in which a fatally injured Crowley runs to the only place that makes sense: a bookshop in Soho.





	London. 1944.

A trembling quiet lays over the city like a blanket. The sun has long since set. Windows are closed, blinds and curtains drawn tightly against the night. All of London is abed or otherwise unable to sleep for fear of what could come in the dark. It has been many months since Germany last rained fire from above, but for most, it feels like yesterday.

One small door on a corner in Soho is doing a marvelous job keeping the lights inside from slipping out onto the street. If it has a bit of miraculous assistance, that is nobody’s business thank you very much. The door and the firmly shuttered windows work together to allow an angel to read late into the night.

The door’s vigil is interrupted when the air ripples, stars blinking in and out of existence as the fabric of the universe creates a loophole in the middle of the street.

A figure drops unceremoniously from that loophole and hits the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

***

Behind the door, Aziraphale turns the page of the book in his lap. He does not sense the loophole. He does not hear the front door whisper open and closed again. He does, however, hear the crash of a stack of books falling.

Aziraphale startles right up out of his favorite armchair, depositing the book on the side table in one fluid motion. No foolish words ( _who’s there_ ) pass his lips. He was a soldier once after all. He’s soft, not an idiot. He cautiously exits his study… and relaxes when he identifies his visitor.

“Crowley,” he scolds as he drops his shoulders and, in another plane of reality, his wings fold themselves neatly. “You gave me a fright! You really shouldn’t go calling unannounced during a war.”

“Sorry, angel.”

The voice is lower, more strained than Aziraphale expects. And then Aziraphale, who can certainly be quite oblivious at times, realizes what is wrong with the scene before him.

Crowley is bent almost double, one hand braced on the table whose books are now on the carpet, the other hand pressed to his chest. His dark glasses are missing and he’s wearing a thin army uniform, decorated by dark stains and a growing circle of fresh blood spilling through Crowley’s fingers. In this Great War, he could belong to any side or none of them.

“Oh Heavens – _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale blinks and he is before the demon as his knees buckle. He catches his friend, not even thinking of blood on his new tartan dressing gown. “What happened to you?”

Crowley answers as Aziraphale half-carries him into the study. “Tempting gone wrong. Well, gone right, I s’pose, according to head office. This young British lad… ordered to hold his fire… I changed his mind.” He coughs, his whole body quaking with its force.

Aziraphale succeeds in lowering him to the sofa. “But you’re – is that a _gunshot_ wound?”

Crowley looks down at himself, his stained hand. “Kid took to my suggestion faster than I expected. Then everyone was shooting and I – I didn’t move fast enough.” He hisses in pain and grimaces.

Kneeling beside him, Aziraphale pulls his hands away from the wound. “Why isn’t it healing?” he asks, puzzled. “You’ve been shot before. Remember when we went to America in 1781?” (1)

“Mmm, rather not.”

With a gesture, Aziraphale summons towels to his empty hand and presses one to Crowley’s chest. “Your body healed itself in a jiffy then – oh stop it,” – for Crowley snorts at the word – “why isn’t it healing now?”

“Was a little miracle… back then…”

“Well, do your little demonic miracle now,” orders Aziraphale. “Before you bleed out on my sofa.” He flinches at the sound of his own beseeching voice. Why hasn’t Crowley fixed this yet? What is he waiting for? Why must he do this, taint the pure little rush in Aziraphale’s heart that began in the church three years ago and burden his heart rather suddenly with 6,000 years’ worth of things he perhaps should have said.

When Crowley makes no move to miracle anything, Aziraphale meets his yellow eyes.

“Crowley.” It is a question, an admonishment, and a plea all in one.

“I can’t – I can’t miracle this away, angel.” The bleeding demon shifts, gritting bloody teeth. He drops a hand atop Aziraphale’s and his eyes roll back as he concentrates harder than necessary to perform even the heaviest miracle. His hand glows a feeble blue, but it changes nothing. Blood still oozes deeper into the towel and farther from Crowley’s heart. He falls back, gasping.

“No, my dear.”

“You know what that means: this body is dying and no demonic miracle can stop it.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale is angry. He presses harder on the wound and Crowley cries out. Aziraphale’s remorse is evident in the lightening of his hold, but his voice is sharp. “Is that why you’re here? You think you can show up – _shot_ and _dying_ – and I will heal you? That is not part of the arrangement.”

“No, angel, I–”

“Because I can’t, Crowley! Gabriel noticed my miracle in the church and he was not pleased! I can’t save us again!”

“Angel–”

“I received my final warning! I can’t help you! Even if I want to!”

“Aziraphale, please!”

The angel quiets. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling but he knows that it’s not supposed to happen like this. 6,000 years and this is it? No. It can’t be. He can’t spend 6,000 years of feeling Crowley’s presence – this particular body’s presence – only to lose him now.

“That’s not why I came.”

Aziraphale hears everything that Crowley is not saying. He knows it as he knows his own mind. Crowley would never ask Aziraphale to do this for him, for reasons both prideful and selfless.

“It’s only a body. I can… convince them to issue a new one…” Crowley’s eyelids fall like curtains.

Aziraphale has not known turmoil of this magnitude since Lucifer’s revolt. And all of it is dancing something much faster than the gavotte in his belly. Yes, it is a mere corporeal vessel. Crowley could come back with another. Lots of paperwork and some serious explaining to his superiors, but he could do it. It would still be him. But at the same time, it wouldn’t be.

It is this body that is endearing with all of its different styles and that adorable tattoo by one ear.

It is this body that suffered the pains of consecrated ground to save the angel after they’d fought and ignored each other for eighty-two years.

It is this body that made the arrangement official as it circled him in the Globe theater and performed a miracle purely for his amusement.

It is this body that smuggled children onto the Ark and kept them safe.

It is this body that Aziraphale might love.

“I… didn’t know where else… to go,” breathes Crowley.

Aziraphale stares at him.

And makes his decision.

He brushes airy fingertips across Crowley’s forehead, pushing him under into a sleep not unlike the torpor that befell Adam at the creation of Eve. Neither angel nor demon can resist it. He pulls the blood-soaked towels away, presses the bloody mess with his bare hands, and focuses his power. His skin glows with red light that spreads to Crowley, sealing up his wound and bringing his body back from the edge.

The light fades, and when Aziraphale opens his eyes, Crowley’s body is clean and whole. He looks like he has so many times before, stealing rest that he doesn’t need on this sofa in this room. Furrowing his brow, Aziraphale blinks and Crowley is not dressed in the uniform anymore but in his usual garments.

With a quivering hand, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s forehead again, lovingly this time. “When you wake,” he whispers, leaning over Crowley’s peaceful face, “you will have just finished a lovely dream about whatever you like best. And maybe… if you want… you’ll remember this.”

Aziraphale drapes a blanket over his best friend and stands. He doesn’t know what he will do if Heaven comes after him for this. All that he knows for sure is that he could not have done anything else.

Surely that means he did the right thing?

He will deal with all of it later.

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I had saved the post so I could give inspiration props to the OP, but essentially someone was commenting on Crowley’s dramatic reaction to being shot with the paintball and the end of the rant was basically “Crowley has been fatally shot before, change my mind.”
> 
> And I promptly lost my mind and when I came to, this fic was there.
> 
> 1\. The Battle of Yorktown. 1781. Because of course Crowley and Aziraphale were there.


End file.
